


sounds like hallelujah

by fadeastride



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:54:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4136538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadeastride/pseuds/fadeastride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pat wants to drop his stupid macchiato right on his fancy fucking shoes.</p><p>(Or: everyone's entitled to one coffee shop au, right?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	sounds like hallelujah

**Author's Note:**

> For the tumblr prompt for when both of your otp are assholes: "I’m a barista and you’re the obnoxious customer who comes through and orders a venti macchiato while talking on the phone the whole time so I misspell your name in increasingly creative ways every day AU"

Pat’s always been thankful that the customers at this Starbucks are way, way nicer than the ones where he used to work. They tip better and most of them say _please_ and _thank you_ and Pat even likes some of the regulars enough to draw little things on their cups.

Except there’s this one hoity-toity douchebag who comes in at least three times a week with some high maintenance order that makes Pat grit his teeth. That guy is _always_ on his fucking phone, never even looks at Pat for longer than a second, and it drives Pat nuts. Like, fuck this guy, he’s a human being who deserves at least some respect, you know?

The guy’s name is Jonathan, Jon when he can’t tear himself away from his conversation long enough for the extra two syllables, and Pat wants to drop his stupid macchiato right on his fancy fucking shoes.

Unfortunately, he needs this job, so he takes his revenge elsewhere. Such as, in misspelling his name in increasingly ridiculous ways.

It’s kind of soothing, the first time, when he comes in bitching away into his phone, and Pat scribbles _Jan_ onto the cup. Jonathan squints at it for a second but takes it without comment anyway. Pat fitsbumps a little before getting back to work.

It escalates from there. 

The next week, Pat switches it up, opts for _Joan_ on Monday and _Joe Nathan_ on Wednesday. Hilary loves that one, uses it herself when the dude comes in on Pat’s days off.

Honestly, Pat’s surprised the guy hasn’t complained yet.

It’s the week and a half of cups that say _Jawn_ that break him.

He comes in, bluetooth in his ear, but it doesn’t look like he’s actively having a conversation. He gives Pat his order like Pat didn’t start it the second he came through the door.

When Pat calls his name, he takes one look at the cup and goes red.

“Seriously?” he asks. 

Pat murmurs inquisitively.

“Are you illiterate or just an asshole?” Jonathan asks, jaw tight. Pat smiles serenely at him.

“That _is_ the question, isn’t it? Have a wonderful day!” With that, Pat spins on his heel and bounces off to help the next customer. He feels a little like he’s won something.

The next time, Pat notices Jonathan’s not on his phone. He slams his credit card on the counter and looks down into Pat’s face.

“Since you obviously need help with it, this is how you spell my name. Go ahead, take a minute or two to memorize it.”

Pat looks everywhere but at the card. “Nah. I’m good.” He uncaps his marker and carefully writes _Juan_ on the side of the cup. 

When Jonathan collects his drink, he makes a strangled noise and shoots Pat a glare. Pat puts on his very best oblivious face and pretends not to see.

He has a couple days off after that, and Jonathan never comes in on the weekends, so Pat doesn’t see him again until Monday.

Mondays are Pat’s favorite because he usually gets to see Miss Emma. Miss Emma is four, likes butterflies and unicorns and pirates, and gets a hot chocolate with her mom every Monday morning.

This is the first time Jonathan and Miss Emma have been in the shop at the same time, Pat thinks. Jonathan’s ended his phone call and is watching intently as Pat draws a snowflake on her cup, explains how all snowflakes are different and beautiful just like her.

When Jonathan steps up to the counter, his mouth is twisted in an almost-grin. “I see how it is. She gets snowflakes and I get Juan.”

Pat just shrugs. “Miss Emma actually talks to me.”

Jonathan’s ears go pink and he looks suitably chastised. “Oh,” is all he says.

It’s the first time Pat spells his name right in nearly two months.

Jonathan doesn't come in on his phone after that. Sometimes Pat sees him standing outside, finishing his conversation before he heads in. 

He starts up conversions with Pat instead. 

It's a little weird, really, when the guy you've been silently hating for two months turns out to be kind of funny and interesting. 

He tries not to think about it too much, but Jonathan keeps smiling at him, asking him questions about his family, making sly digs at his hometown. Pat returns the favor in kind, learns about Jonathan's life in short moments over coffee-stained counters. 

He doesn't let it affect his ongoing mission to come up with names to put on his cup. 

He's running out of misspellings, though, and decides to start cycling back through names he’s used previously. Of course the guy’s gonna call him on it, of _course._

“Joe Nathan again, really? You like baseball?”

Pat shrugs a shoulder. “It’s alright. Prefer hockey, though.”

Jonathan looks at him, sharp. “Yeah? Me too.”

He doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he’s glad when Jonathan takes his coffee with a _thanks_ and leaves.

Maybe Jonathan’s kind of hot when he’s not being a douche. _Maybe_. Whatever, it’s not a thing.

(Okay, it might be a little bit of a thing.)

They've been talking for a couple of weeks now, but that doesn't mean Pat's expecting Jonathan to interrupt him one morning. 

"Hey, you wanna grab a drink tonight? You can tell me all about the asshole customers like me, it'll be great."

Jonathan looks shy when he asks, eyes peering out from beneath lowered lashes. Pat knows all the reasons this is a bad idea, can list them all out, but he finds himself saying yes anyway. It's worth it for the way Jonathan's face lights up. They hammer out the details and it feels like no time at all before Pat's pulling open the door at Rossi’s.

It takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting inside, but he finds Jonathan quickly, perched on a stool by the bar. 

Jonathan jumps down and hesitates before slinging his arm around Pat in an awkward hug. 

"How was work?"

"Oh, you know, the usual." They slide onto their seats. 

"Terrible customers?" Jonathan asks, gesturing at himself. 

Pat says, "Of course," doesn't say, "You haven't been an asshole in almost a month."

Instead he asks, "What about you? Hell, what do you even do for a living?"

Jonathan laughs at that, and it's a beautiful sound. 

"I'm a junior partner at Hossa LLP."

"Oh, you are way too high class to be hanging out here with a barista, bro."

"What, you think I can't do dive bars with the best of 'em? That's how I got through law school."

Pat grins and flags down the bartender. "Get my friend here a shot of your worst shit." He winks at Jonathan. "You're gonna have to prove yourself right now."

The bartender brings over some godawful rotgut and Jonathan throws it back without batting an eye. Pat crows. 

"Alright, alright, maybe you can hold your own, Mr. Fancypants."

Jonathan smiles, crooked, and orders them a couple of beers. 

It's nice, really, just shooting the shit, occasionally yelling at the Hawks game on the tiny bar tv. Turns out Jonathan, no, _Jonny_ does know hockey, played for years till he fucked up his knee the way Pat fucked up his wrist. They don't talk about that much, because Pat can tell it's something that still hurts both of them.

Pat wants to stay here and talk to him all night but he's got the opening shift tomorrow. They exchange numbers and Jonny walks him back to his car. 

He's not expecting the text he gets just before work the next morning. It maybe makes him smile a little too wide because Hilary tells him to stop sexting and get to work. 

All it says is _good morning Pat_ , nothing much at all, but it's the fact that Jonny's thinking of him before sunrise that makes warmth start in his stomach and seep all the way through him

Jonny stops in a few hours later. Pat scribbles, quick as he can, sketches out a couple of hockey players facing off. It's sloppy, but he knows Jonny figures out what it is by the grin that spreads across his face. 

It's one of Pat's better shifts. 

Jonny breezes in on Wednesday looking like hell and Pat ups the size of his coffee without even asking. Jonny looks grateful for it, though.

"What's up, man?"

Jonny groans loudly. "This case is a fucking shitshow and I don't know how we're gonna pull it off."

"Do you have to stay late tonight?"

"Probably."

"Do you wanna get drunk after?"

"God, yes."

Pat hands him his drink. "Sweet, text me when you're out and we'll get together."

Pat gets three texts that night: one at 7:41 that says _we're still here_ , one at 9:03 that says _fuck my entire life_ , and one at 9:58 that says _I'm exhausted, wanna just drink at my place?_ followed by an address. Pat pulls on his shoes and makes a mental note to stop by the store for beer on the way over. 

When he shows up, Jonny's changed out of his work clothes into a henley and a soft-looking pair of sweats. It takes Pat by surprise how different he looks, how good. 

He kind of wants to climb him like a tree. 

Instead, he hands over the beer and says, "Hell of a place you've got here." He likes the way Jonny flushes when he says it. 

"It's nothing special, really -"

"Dude, you know it's nice. Just say thanks and shut up."

Jonny scrubs at the back of his neck. "Thanks, man. Come on in."

He’s got NHL Network on in the living room, more background noise than anything else. They end up talking over it anyway. Pat tells him about the Cat Lady, this middle aged woman who comes in sometimes, wearing cat ears and meowing. Jonny laughs till tears leak out of his eyes.

“How many cats do you think she has?” he asks.

“Man, I don’t even know if she has any. I think she just thinks she is one.”

“Christ,” Jonny stretches, shirt riding up to reveal a thin strip of skin that Pat wants to put his mouth on. “Never a boring day at the Starbucks.”

“Nah,” Pat kicks at his shin. “Always douchebags like you rolling up, making life difficult.”

“Hey, fuck you, you like me.”

“Eh, you’re alright.” 

Pat's pretty sure they both know he's lying. 

Jonny grins. "Good enough."

He doesn't see Jonny for a couple of days after that, which sucks, but Jonny keeps up a steady stream of texts, which is great. 

Pat kind of wants to hang out with him all the time. 

“Hey,” Pat says when Jonny stops by next. “Wanna come over tonight, watch the Hawks game? I’ve got beer if you grab some food.”

“Yeah, sure, sounds like a plan. I’ll come by around 6:30, if that’s cool?”

“Works for me. See you tonight, man.”

Jonny turns to leave and Pat grins at him till he’s out the door.

Hilary hipchecks him into the counter. 

"You got it bad, kid."

"I'm older than you," he says automatically. "And I do not."

"Mmhmm, whatever you say."

Pat thinks for a minute. "Is it that obvious?"

"Visible from space."

"...do you think he knows?"

"No, I don't, because I think he's just as dumb as you."

"Oh thank god. Wait."

Hilary laughs and throws her ponytail over her shoulder. "C'mon, we've got shit to do."

It's the first time Jonny's come over, and Pat spends his entire day off cleaning his apartment. He knows Jonny doesn't care, that he'd be a total slob if it weren't for his maid service, but he wants his tiny little place to look as good as possible. 

Jonny rolls up late with takeout, still in his work clothes. 

"We got stuck on a case," he explains, looking sheepish. He abandons his jacket and tie over the arm of the couch, tugs open the top few buttons of his shirt so Pat can see the smooth expanse of his throat giving way to chest. 

The Hawks game is terrible, like so many of them are, and Pat spends more time watching Jonny out of the corner of his eye than he does watching the tv. 

Jonny hugs him when he leaves, lingers maybe longer than he ought to, says _good night_ into the side of Pat's neck like a promise. It's all Pat can do to keep his prayers in his stomach, in his throat, out of his mouth. 

They go skating at Millennium Park a few days before Christmas. It's packed, rink stuffed full of people. Jonny's cheeks are red from the cold and Pat wants to press his hands to them, warm them up. 

He jams his hands into his pockets instead. 

Jonny turns to face him, skating backward. 

"I haven't been skating in years," he says. 

"Me neither. Not since college."

Jonny's brow furrows. "You went to college?"

"For a while, yeah. It, uh. It didn't really stick."

Jonny nods sagely. "Good to know you're not as dumb as you look." He takes off.

"Fucking asshole!" Pat calls, chasing a laughing Jonny as he weaves across the rink. 

Jonny comes in almost every morning now, so it’s no surprise when he rolls in on a Miss Emma morning again looking dead on his feet. He’s staring into space when Miss Emma turns to face him.

“Why do you look sad?” she asks, startling Jonny from his stupor.

“I’m. I’m not sad,” he says.

“But you _look_ sad. You should smile. Smiling’s the _best._ ”

Jonny smiles at her, a lopsided thing. It’s pretty cute, if Pat’s being honest.

“Know what else is the best? Holding hands.” She waves her own hand, clutched in her mother’s, in the air to illustrate. “Do you like holding hands, Mister Patrick?”

“I do.”

She turns toward Jonny again. “You should hold Mister Patrick’s hand. I bet you’d smile more.”

Jonathan raises an eyebrow at him. “Maybe.” 

Pat’s about to ask him what the fuck he means by that when Miss Emma’s mom jumps in.

"Emma, please, leave the poor man alone."

“It’s all right, ma’am.”

“Still. I’m sorry, she gets like this sometimes. Come on, Em, say goodbye to these nice gentlemen.”

“Bye!” she calls, flouncing out the door, still clinging tightly to her mother.

“So,” Pat says, leaning against the counter, “You’re gonna hold my hand?”

Jonny goes bright red. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Language, Mr. Jonathan,” he says, thinks _oh._ Thinks _maybe._

He's so sick of the dancing around they've been doing but he isn't sure how to stop it. 

It takes him a week to work up the courage to write "I'd say yes if you asked" on the side of Jonny's cup when he sees Jonny heading in, and then he covers it up with a sleeve. Bravery has never been his strong suit. Jonny doesn't even look at it when he takes it, but that doesn't keep Pat from feeling like his stomach is in his knees for the rest of the day. 

After he clocks out, he heads outside to find Jonny leaning against his car, dicking around on his phone. 

"Hey," he says when he gets close. Jonny looks up at him, eyes focused. 

"Wanna grab dinner?"

"Um, it's not even five yet, but sure, we can hang out with the grandparents at Sizzler or something -"

"Don't be an asshole. Come on. You want to drive?"

Which is how Pat finds himself pulling into the parking lot of a restaurant he knows he can't afford. 

"Dude," he murmurs as they wait for a table. "You realize this is gonna be, like, an entire paycheck for me?"

Jonny doesn't look at him. "Then I guess it's a good thing you aren't paying."

Pat gapes as the hostess leads them to their table. 

There's not even prices on the menu, Jesus Christ, Pat is in so far over his head. He scans for something that might not be stupid expensive, navigates his way through fancy-sounding reductions and foams. He's said maybe four words to Jonny since they sat down. 

"I know what you're doing," Jonny says, "and you don't have to. It's okay."

Pat's pretty sure his mom would kill him if he ordered something ridiculous, and he tells Jonny as much. Jonny throws his head back and laughs, loud and sweet, and Pat can feel his face stretch into an answering grin. 

"Your mom raised a good kid," Jonny says, suddenly serious. Pat's pretty sure he's blushing.

"She raised a few of them. You know about my sisters and, trust me, they're way better than I am."

He tells Jonny about them, knows that he's rambling, but Jonny looks like he actually cares, so he keeps talking. 

They split dessert, some gorgeous chocolate confection topped with spun sugar that's better than anything Pat's ever put in his mouth. 

At the end of the meal, Jonny snatches the bill before Pat can even put up a fight, you know, on principle. 

After, he drives Jonny back to his car. 

Before he gets out, Jonny says, "I saw your note, by the way," and leans in to press his lips to the corner of Pat's mouth. He slides out of the car while Pat's still processing what just happened. 

He rolls the window down. "You dick! Did you just date me without actually asking?"

Jonny looks back from where he's climbing into his car. "You would have said yes anyway, right?"

"Not the point, you're still supposed to ask!" 

Jonny waves and closes his door. 

"What a _dick_ ," Pat mutters, smiling wide. 

They slip into something slow and easy. Pat’s fairly certain that Jonny’s following the whole three date rule, but it’s fine. He’s been waiting so long already that it’s enough just to know he’s gonna get to tap that eventually. 

Turns out Jonny _was_ waiting for the third date, because he's lame as hell, but Pat can't even give him shit about it right now because he's got a lap full of Jonny and it's awesome. He's got his fingers just under the hem of Pat's shirt and his mouth pressed to the place where neck meets shoulder. Pat's hands are firmly planted on Jonny's ass, rocking their hips together. He's so hard he could cry, knows Jonny is too, but he's letting Jonny run this show and apparently Jonny's down to take his sweet time with it. 

Jonny works Pat's shirt up over his head, flings it behind him for them to find later. He sucks a bruise along Pat's sternum, violent red, and traces his fingers over the edges of it. 

Pat gets the buttons of Jonny's stupid date night dress shirt open and pushes it off his shoulders. He leans in, lets his teeth graze Jonny's nipple, notices just how still Jonny goes. 

So he does it again, with a little more feeling.

Jonny inhales sharply and rolls his hips, hard. 

"Bedroom," Jonny gets out. "Bedroom bedroom bedroom, now, move it, let's go." He hooks his fingers through Pat's belt loops and drags him down the hall. 

It's the first time Pat's ever seen his bedroom and he cares about nothing beyond getting their pants off as soon as humanly possible. 

Jonny pushes him down on the bed, keeps his hand flat against Pat's chest. 

"So I was thinking I could ride you, if that's okay." He says it matter-of-factly, like Pat's brain isn't short circuiting.

"Fuckin' Christ," he chokes. "Yeah, yes, that's. God, go for it."

Pat slides his shorts off, eyes Jonny as he does the same. Jonny's ass is a work of art; he can't believe he's gonna get to put his dick in there. 

He jacks himself lazily, watches as Jonny works himself open on long fingers. Jonny's on his knees, one hand between his thighs, pressing in with slow, deliberate movements, the other gently working his cock. It's beautiful to watch, Jonny's hips hitching down just a little to push in farther. 

Pat reaches out and gets his hand slapped for his effort. 

"Put the fucking condom on, hurry up."

Pat does as he's told, lubes himself up, and waits for Jonny to knee-walk over him. 

Jonny positions himself carefully, slides down in a slow motion almost like he's out of practice. Pat watches his face shift expressions

"Been a while?" Pat asks. 

"Fuck you," Jonny snaps, dropping his chin to his chest. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I just. Yeah. It has."

"Hey," Pat's runs his thumbs over Jonny's hipbones. "It's fine. Take your time, man. I'm not going anywhere."

He lets Jonny settle in, lets him get comfortable, lets him set a rolling pace. 

Pat digs his fingers into Jonny's hips and follows his lead. 

It's not too long before Jonny starts to lose his rhythm, fucks down harder to meet Pat's thrusts. 

"What do you need?"

"Just. Just get your hand on me," Jonny grits out. Pat does, tries to imitate the way he saw Jonny touch himself earlier. 

Jonny's gorgeousl when he comes, eyes squeezed shut, mouth dropped open, and Pat stops moving just to watch. 

"Keep going," Jonny says. "Keep going, it's okay."

"You sure?" Pat asks. 

"Not if you're gonna ask stupid questions. Shut up and fuck me."

Pat grins as he rolls them over, hooks his arms beneath Jonny's knees, and goes for it. 

Jonny's fucking panting now, blunt fingernails dragging down Pat's back.

"Come on," Jonny whispers. "Come on, do it."

Pat's head falls back between his shoulders, breath coming in gasps, hips stilling. He collapses down onto Jonny's chest, useless weight.

"You know," Jonny says, pushing at him. "For someone so small, you're fucking heavy."

"Just for that, I'm not moving."

They do eventually clean themselves up, and Jonny pulls Pat back into bed. He acts like he doesn't want to cuddle, so Pat makes him the little spoon until he relents. They lie like that until they drift off.

Pat's definitely late to work the next morning. 

Hilary eyes him knowingly. 

"Somebody got laid," she singsongs under her breath. 

"Shut the hell up," he sings back. 

When Jonny stops by an hour later, Pat has to stifle the grin that threatens to take over his face at the sight of the edge of a bruise just peeking out of the collar of Jonny's shirt. 

Pat uncaps his marker with his teeth and writes _Jonny_ on a cup in his absolute best handwriting.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm embarrassing [here](http://fadeastride.tumblr.com) on a daily basis.


End file.
